


got game

by warschach



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Smut, Smut, or how to be shitty at your job and still make that paper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 02:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8383540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warschach/pseuds/warschach
Summary: Lance hates his job until the one day he doesn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> look at me being all productive and shit.
> 
> so on occasions i get these really silly aus in my head and most times I'm like, nah no one wants to read that next. this time i said yolo, fuck it.

 

Lance hates his job.

It smells like cheese pizza, cheap sodas, and stinky diapers. His ear usually start to bleed two hours into his shift cause the kids scream, run, giggle, squeal, shout and then the machines blast sound effects and bright lights. Plus there is the music playing on an endless loop  on a soundtrack complied by Allura with only like two hundred songs.

Two hundred you say, that’s not so bad.

First, fuck you.

Second, get the fuck out. It is the worst thing, ever. Worse than the disappointment from all those DC movies.

Eight hours of that _music_ on repeat while you deal with stuck up moms, mentally absent dads, and high on sugar kids could legally make you insane. Also the place is always busy. They never have a slow day at Chuck E Cheese.

Why the fuck he took this job and not the one at Kmart he would never know.

The pay is decent though and the crew he works with are some of the coolest people he’s ever known.

Allura is a supermodel attractive shift leader who doesn’t mind you cutting some corners or hitting a joint in the back. Especially if you bought said joint from her— beautiful, independent, naughty, and a hustler, Lance might be in love if he didn’t meet her boyfriend, Shiro. Nice guy, criminally hot and wicked smart.

—Lance has kinky fantasies with the two as the main star.

 Pidge’s snarky commentary literally makes time fly by.  This girl gets away with _murder_ because when she does snap on a customer everyone is so taken aback that they let it slide. She’s petite and pixie in the face you can’t stay mad at her. And the customers that snitch to the bigger bosses get dismissed cause no one really thought Pidge would call a seven year old a cunt.

—She did, Lance was a witness. That girl went ballistic on that ignorant child.

 Hunk finds the silver lining in every day so he picks Lance up whenever his mood sours and he’s on a real bad bitch rant.  Plus he is the kind of guy that sends you positive vibes all day long

Coran is…okay, they all make fun of Coran and do awful impersonations of him the second he leaves but he’s not that bad. He’ll do you a solid and give you a sick day or time off if you really need it.

Coran claps Lance on the back when he navigates from the front door through the zipping kids to the back.  “Busy, busy day.”

Lance would have an emotion if his soul didn’t die the minute he stepped through the door. But it’s dead, he’s dead.

  “Yea. I see that.” Hence, him trying not to trip a kid on the way here unless he wanted an armada of fuming bob cuts on his ass.

Coran crowds in close, hooks a arm around Lance’s neck, and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now I want you to put on your happy face. We have a lot of volume today. Lots of costumers. It’s a heavy day. And well I know some are not the kindest not there but I need you to keep smiling.”

He feels alarmed, “Uh.”

“Hunk is working the concession stand,” Coran continues. “I have Pidge on register. You’re on tickets today.”

_Oh fuck_.

Fuck that noise.

“You can manage right?”

“Y-yea. Sure. I have it,” he lies, ignores the cancerous ball of dread spreading thick and sick in his gut that belies how full of it he is.

Today is going to suck balls.

“Laser focus, Lance. “ Coran levels him with an eye to eye gesture. “Laser. Focus.”

 

 

 

[x]

 

 

Lance sprints for the break room that doubles as the staff locker room. He sees Allura at her locker, packing it in for her shift, hair immaculately flowing over her shoulder like a gorgeous waterfall. An eight hour with their Chuck E Cheese issued hat left Lance with a nasty case of hat head. It’s a law of the natural order that skips Allura for some reason.

“Oooh. You’re on your phone. I’m telling.” He sneaks up behind her and pretends to swat her phone out from her hand.

Allura pinches him and presses on with her mute Facebook scrolling. “Coran give you the speech?”

“You know it.” He props his chin on her shoulder. “So what’s the game plan, anything you need me to do?”

She stares at him, grim and hollowed by hours of bright light, loud explosions, and the banshee shriek of kids stoned on candy, pizza, and tickets. “Survive.”

“Shut up, it didn’t look that bad.”

Allura snorts. “You remember Saving Private Ryan? The beach scene that was this afternoon.”

“My god.”

“God speed, Lance,” she claps her hand on his back in solidarity. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Allura walks over to their computer system to clock out and Lance trails behind, shaken with terror. “What the fuck, you can’t leave me like that. Allura, stay. I love you.”

“And I love you too but I love me more so deuces.” She dips out like a scumbag, head up high and back strong, the pain and misery of this place leaving her soul as she presses those double doors open.

 

 

[x]

 

Let’s start the count here:

Five kids have more or less called Lance a idiot/cheater and threatened to get their big older brother to kick his butt unless he handed over that dinosaur eraser or the plastic sword which lights up on command.

Two moms have attempted to buy prizes off him— a huge no, don’t ever do that. Coran will fire you, never take cash for prizes — then said loudly for Lance to pick up about how they’ll buy them one at the store.

One dad got in his face.

Then one big brother with pock holes on his face and pungent week stank in his glands.

Three girls —he figures it’s a smarter choice to low ball their age grouping since so many chicks these days are wearing makeup to kick their appearance to nineteen— asked for his number and low key hinted at a little over the pants action.

He was down thirty purple T-Rex erasers, twenty fuzzy pens, six princess’ necklaces, four swords, and one knocked off Nerf gun.

One kid is busting his balls and Lance wants to face plate through the glass display case.

“Listen, pal. I want that T-Rex,” Junior tells him, again, but he slaps his hands flat on the glass to show this time he won’t be turned away.

“And I’m telling _you_ ,” Lance growls. “That it cost ten tickets. You have nine. Go win more or whatever.”

“Why you gotta bust my balls?”

“Do you even know what that means?”

Junior sticks a finger in his mouth and considers the phrase. “No. But my daddy says it to my mommy all the time when she wants him to go down on her. I don’t get it cause where are they gonna go at night, you know, and she never ask me to—“

Lance cuts him off, “Don’t finish that. Here.” He opens the case and picks the cleanest looking T-Rex.

Junior goes to take it but Lance jerks it back and wags at him. “Anyone ask, you paid ten tickets. You speak of this to no one. Not a soul. Alright, little man?”

He steps on his tip toes, grunting, as he waves his arm wildly for the prize. “Yes! Yes! Now hand it over.”

He hovers it over Junior’s head then pulls back again, because Lance has to get some joy from this place and that sometimes comes in the form of being an asshole to kids. “Swear on your life.”

“I swear!”

“And your dad’s and your mom’s.”

“Okay, okay. Give me my dino.”

“Here you go, little man.” He tosses it.

Junior jumps and catches it like a pro and grins with two missing teeth. “Thanks, mister!”

He speeds off and shows off his prize to his group of friends. The girl with Katniss’ braids practically hangs off his arm in wonder

“I’m deciding whether or not, you’re going to hell or heaven,” Pidge comments, dropping her elbows next to his on the counter.

Lance folds Junior’s nine tickets and stuffs them in a big plastic bin. “Shouldn’t you be working, missy?”

Pidge shrug, “Shay’s covering me. Plus it slowed down a bit. Coran told me to sweep up.”

“And are you?”

“I was going to make you.” She smiles, it attempts sweet but Pidge is more like a sour patch kid, sour then sweet. Evil lies beneath her round eyes and youthful face.

Lance is about to tell her where to stick that broom when he spot an enrage ponytail cutting through the sea of children. Time to abandon the fort.

“Angry soccer mom at ten o’clock,” he tells her then books it.

The floor isn’t much better. There are five spills he has to sweep then vacuum, three tables are piled with half eaten pizza and balled napkins, and some little turd decided to chuck out as many balls as possible out of the ball pit.

Fun. It never ceases here at Chuck E. Cheese where your child’s dream is our nightmare.

Lance is on his knees, a few kids run by and kick the ball he’s reaching for out of range and giggles off.

Yea, that’s chill. Not like Lance has done anything ever to warrant this treatment but whatever, fuck kids.

Two red converse pop into his vision and he’s not really thinking clearly at this point of his shift, he has endurance but today is pushing each of his button, so he takes the red ball in his hand and fucking chucks it madly.

The ball slaps with a hollow thud into red converse’s face. Naturally, the guy is pissed off.

“Dude, what the fuck,” he touches the red imprint warming up on his cheek.

Oh. Fuucck.

Lance gapes, freaked and kind of turned on— and not like that but the guy in red converse is insanely attractive. Model level, sapphire eyes that can kill, pink lips that begs for a cock, thick black hair that descends down his nape, and a jawline chiseled by the divine hands of Michelangelo.

He needs to do damage control and do it fast because he wants this guy’s number, name, lips— _everything_.

He fixes his face, put on this genuine mixture of apologetic and remorseful. “I’m— fuck. Sorry! I’m so sorry. I— I wasn’t thinking. Don’t tell my manager. Listen, I’ll hook you up or something.”

Red dismisses him. “It’s fine.”

“I’m really sorry about that. You know how it is,” he gestures lamely at the place. An ear-shattering screech splits the sound barrier at that moment, Red winces.

“I worked as a barista.”

Lance flinches at the job title. Customer service work had a line of crap jobs but he likes to think baristas and the hotline for technical support were some of the worst.  “Damn.”

“And at Starbucks.”

“Shit.”

“Yea. I would’ve toss a boiling pot of hot coffee on someone by now if I still worked there,” he says. “Plus dudes were always bugging me to smile. Fuck that.”

Lance nods, “One time a kid threw up in the ball pit and I had to clean it up.”

“Alright, maybe your job is shitter than mine. Keith by the way,” he volunteers his name and a hand.

“Lance,” he fingers the plastic name tag and shakes Keith’s hand.

In comparison to Lance’s, his hands are slender and nearly delicate but they fit precisely in his own. A neat contrast to his rich brown skin

Keith smiles, it’s tentative and small like he isn’t used to applying it in his everyday life but it ignites butterflies in Lance’s gut. His smiles can put the constellations to shame.

His eyes flcikers down to the law suit hazard on the floor, he nudges one of the balls, unable to look Lance cleanly in the face. “Need like help or—“

“Please,” he says quickly then backtracks. “Like you don’t have to. You’re a customer and all so please don’t think you have to or anything…”

“Nah. Not like I’m doing shit,” he side steps out of the way when a chubby six year old barrels past them, stomps up the steps, and cannonballs into the pit. A few balls over flows and dribbles on the steps and banks nicely next to Lance’s white and blue Jordan’s.

Normally he would groan and curse every snot nosed brat but unsurprisingly he’s too lost in the deep blues of Keith’s eyes to care at all. He wants to drown in them in a romantic way. Well as romantic as drowning could get.

 “I just tagged along with my parents. My little brother has been begging to come here for months so…” Keith’s broad shoulder hunch and lower again but the action is wickedly mesmerizing in that crimson leather jacket.

_Let me wreck you_ , he thinks. Prays. Hopes. _There’s a room where I can take you apart. Have you on all fours, begging for it._

“C-cool,” he stutters.

Keith is making it quite clear his intentions are not to be a good humanitarian and Lance wants to pull him into the pit, rip off his clothes, and fuck him. When all the parents and children are gone, of course, he’s a gentlemen and his I’m-thinking-about –you-naked- boyfriend will not be shown to the masses. That shit is Lance, no sneak peeks.

The two can’t get any more corny than when they both squat and go for the same ball, fingers brushing, and exchange a sheepish smile with a blush.

The first time is careless but the second is intentional; what can Lance say he has butterfingers right now.

 

 

[x]

 

 

“I found my future husband today. He doesn’t know it but we have an apartment together, two dogs and one cat,” Lance babbles, more a monologue to himself but others are invited to discuss, as he pines from his station.

He doesn’t have Keith’s number but he’s got a list of films Keith adores, a few of his pet peeves (like why are wasps still around, they’re complete dicks of the bee world}, he has a year on Lance and currently manages a part time job with full time classes.

Coran spotted him at that point and moved him back to prizes, yay.

Pidge looks up from her cell phone. “Which husband is this? Last I check you were with Chris Pratt.”

“I am. We’re very open about our relationship,” Lance corrects as he rolls up a string of tickets idly.

Keith passes his counter, waves at Lance like he is the first boy to ever tell Keith he’s pretty, then tracks after a six year with dark hair and a complexion to match Keith.

“Him?”

Lance props his chin in his palm and sighs dreamily, “Yea. He has no idea I’m going to pound his butt and then make him s’mores. Poor boy.”

Pidge tucks away her cell in favor of dramatically covering her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“He has a mullet,” she says behind her hand.

“So?” Lance defends.

“Only assholes wear mullets.”

“Then I guess you’re not invited to our wedding,” he huffs and write that note down as a draft message in his inbox.

“Don’t believe me, fine I’ll ask Hunk,” she motions him over.

Lance stands straight, hisses. “Don’t you bring him in to this.”

One, Hunk is straight so it’s uncool to put this burden and second, Hunk is his best friend and he better not agree with Pidge or there will be trouble.

“Hey, Hunk,” Pidges smiles when he rounds the counter. “Personal opinion, only assholes and douchebag wear mullets right?”

“Uh,” Hunk mutters, wide eyes going to Pidge’s smirking expression and Lance’s expecting one.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Lance jumps in and worms an arm around Hunk’s body.

Pidge shoves at him to dislodge him and takes Lance’s former positon, “Ignore him.”

 She glances up, the light of the machines bounces off her square glasses. “So your answer?”

“I think I hear Coran calling me,” Hunk says and darts off.

“Damn it,” she curses.

“This might be news to you but do you ever think that you’re the asshole?”

“Eat a dick, Lance.” She walks away to the register.

“That isn’t insulting by the way. I love eating dick so I’ll enjoy eating another dick!” He shouts to her retreating back.

Two girls with Elsa t-shirts and Bambi round eyes watch Lance in stunned silence. “Oh fuck.”

One girl mouth pops into a o. “You said a bad word.”

“What’s ‘eating a dick’?” The other asks.

“Ladies, how about we come to an agreement where you don’t say anything about this conversation ever and you get a free prize,” Lance bribes.

The girls trade a look, having an entire dialogue in silence, before they nod and cock an elbow on the counter. “We’re listening.”

 

 

 

[x]

 

 

“You’re bad at your job,” Keith comments as the two girls with their angel soft blonde hair and powder blue Elsa shirts walk away with plastic swords, one glows blue and the other green, and slice at each other like they’re in a duel to the death.

Lance’s shoulders slump, red in the face at being heard. “Did you hear all of that?”

“Only the dick eating part,” he answers and Lance wishes Coran didn’t have that bootleg Nerf gun hitched up on the wall, he wants to shoot himself and possibly Keith who is smirking with a cocksure charm like he’s so damn cool. But then his deep sapphire eyes look at him from under his dark long lashes and Lance suddenly wants to kiss him instead.

“And your bribery too. You’re bad at that too.”

“Those girls were tough customers , okay? Did you hear them hustle me like a joke? I’m worried for whoever decides to play them in the future.”

“Dude all they did was fake cry and you cracked.”

“Shut up,” he mutters and hops back into the gatekeeper of prizes. “ You here for your prize or something?”

“That depends on like…how many,” Keith fishes out a train of tickets, printed with Mr. Chuck’s grinning rat face and oval elephant ears, from the back of his pocket. They have crinkles of wear like Keith had messed with them repeatedly with his touch.

An action he is doing once more and Lance doesn’t pick up on the flush running vibrant on his face at first

“How many what?” Lance presses when Keith peters off.

Keith grits out, “For your number?”

“What?”  Lance stretches over the counter to hear him better.

“For. Your. Number,” he get out a second time, red as his shoes and leather jacket, and attempts to maintain his aura of _like I give a shit_ except Keith flicks his deep blues to Lance’s face for hope and not an icy, brutal rejection.

Fucking hell.

“How many tickets do you have?”

He counts them frantically, whispering the numbers under his breath, then says. “Twenty.”

“Wow, you suck. And I’m worth only twenty tickets, that’s really cold.”

It’s the cutest and most amusing thing to watch Keith’s face go from offense to flustered, which he does in record time and stumbles to explain his low quantity of tickets. “I tried to get more but some fucking  Cali Shore teenagers are hogging the skeeball machines—they fucking suck by the way— and that’s the one game I’m good at. All the other games win you five tickets and skeeball can get you a hundred easy.”

Lance would stop him from rambling but… today is such a rare occurrence, this cute guy is actively flirting—badly— with him and is pulling all the stops to earn his number. On good days, momma bear doesn’t scream in his face and demands the manager so this is a experience Lance wants to dine on for eternity.

“I can get a shit ton of tickets,” Keith continues. “ What do you want, a hundred? Two hundred?”

“No, no,” he laughs. “It’s cool, dude. You can have my number.” Lance goes through the drawers behind the counter, rummages for a notepad and a pen and scribbles his digits cleanly, thinks about adding hugs and kisses but realizes that is going way too gay. He draws a smiley face.

“Here.” He peels it back and about hands it to Keith but hesitates. “Though I would be really, really stoked if you got me a hundred tickets.”

“You take your break yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Take it.”

 

 

[x]

 

 

Keith is good—damn good— at skeeball and Lance stands there at the end of the ramp in pure awe as he bends for a ball, flicks it up the ramp and racks up the hundreds on the score counter. He hits every mark.

Bam.

 Hundred.

Bam.

Two Hundred.

Bam.

Three hundred.

And Lance was sucking loudly on his straw but the chewed end dries with his spit while he watches. This is the most romantic thing any guy has ever done for him and it’s for his stupid digits, for the opportunity to have a conversation with him outside of work— all this work so he can text Lance a few digital words.

He wants to kiss him so badly.

But also his wrists— like does that mean he gives incredible hand jobs?

They have a crowd around them. Every prepubescent with zits and greasy hair and nine year dressed —when Lance was that age, he wore light Batman sketchers and a Power Ranger shirt with the blue ranger but these kids wear polos and Timberlands—beyond their age group chant and cheer Keith on and they have no idea Keith’s slaying this for a boy.

Keith palms the last ball and side glances at Lance and bring it up to his lips. “Wanna blow for good luck?”

Oh.

Oh!

You smooth devil.

Lance wraps a hand around his wrists and jerks him forward then bows his neck slowly and presses his lips and blows—he’ll think about how stupid he looks doing it later, right now Keith’s face makes it all worth it.

He lets go and juts his chin to the machine.  “Make my day, buddy.”

The machine explosion with noise and lights and the slots practically vomits a rope of tickets.

 

 

[x]

 

So Lance is breaking almost every rule in the book plus defiling the sacred grounds of Chuck E. Cheese and he should be thinking of that he could lose his job or the thin odds of Coran might the monitors tonight or the next day— but he can’t. No really, Keith is kissing and grinding out the last of his brain cells and he can’t have thoughts. Can feel Keith though. Feels his soft lips pry his apart and his tongue slip inside. Feels the hard line of his cock rut against his thigh.

So long cognitive thought process and hello boner central.

“Can’t believe,” Lance pants. “You’re this hard to fuck around at Chuck E. Cheese.”

Keith tugs back to laugh, eyes pitch black in the low light of the supply closet. “You literally begged me to let you hit here, nerd, so shut up.”

“Well duh, I just got promoted to shift leader and that means key privileges. I want to abuse my power with you. I’m trying to be romantic and dangerous for you.”

Coran would be so disappointed in him.

“I know something better you can try,” Keith suggests and licks where Lance’s pulse pounds frantically under his arousal tined skin, he exposes more skin for Keith to suckle on and moans.

His hands latch out for purchase and finds it around Keith’s narrow hips and drives his back into the wall. Something clatters to the floor and his arm bumps into the metal shelving.  “What’s that?”

“Fucking me.”

“Fuck,” he curses, the thought makes his knee go weak at the joint and Keith revels in his slow destruction and moves his mouth to his ear, breath unnecessarily noisy and debauched like he wants Lance to lose his mind, like he need Lance to hear him going wild and slutty.

 Wouldn’t guess it with the way Keith screams black stones, red suns, and cigarette smoke — Mr. Edge Lord, Lance teased when he rolled up for their first date on a black hog and fingerless leather gloves—  but he’s quite the power bottom and he loves Lance breaking apart inside of him. Likes to control the bounce of his hips when he rides Lance, brings Lance to the edge then slows down and makes each drag in and out of him an exquisite agony. It’s sexier if he has Lance cuffed to the bedframe and all the lights are on in the room so Lance can watch him, see him ride that cock like it’s all he is good for. Then Lance digs the power reversal. He doesn’t mind being submissive and weak to Keith, to be his little toy

His cock throbs in time to Keith’s pornographic moans. Each _ah, ha, oh_ brings his hips to a brainless rock.

“Brought stuff too,” he breathes into his ear where the cartridge turns pink and sparks shivers down the nobs of his spine.  “So you can open my ass.”

Lance’s top two weakest: nasty talk and kisses on his neck.

“Keith,” he whimpers cause Keith nips the lob of his ear and places open mouth kisses on his Adam’s apple.

Damn cheater.

“I want you to pull my jeans and fuck me. Like don’t even take my pants off just get my ass out and put your cock in me. Fucking need it, baby,” he moans like those girls on late night television, girls whose income depends on how hard and thick they can get you, on how good they sell sex. Keith sells it, hell he is the source of sex.

“Oh my god.”

“What’s the matter, shift leader? “ Keith teases when the best Lance can do is paw at his ass and make soft breathy sounds.

“You’re like the best boyfriend ever and you’re really pretty too.”

“And you’re the only guy I know that can make sex into a sap feast. Tell me all that sweet shit after you fuck me.”

“Okay but also um happy anniversary.”

Keith grins, mouth going easy and soft as it did whenever Lance called him little pet names at the store, or when he showed up to Keith’s school with flowers for Valentine’s day despite Keith’s insistence that he didn’t need that girly shit —turned out he did—, or the times Lance held him tight like the stars and moon might fall out of the sky if he didn’t, or when he kissed him on the Ferris Wheel a thousand feet in the air with the fair’s lights blinking brilliant and lovely and there was a whole world of people around them but that kiss narrowed it down to just two.

 A hundred memories and Lance aches to make more.

Honestly, he stuck around for another year at this joint in some roundabout way to pay the universe back. How often did you find love at fucking Chuck E. Cheese?

“Happy anniversary, Lance.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> note: i actually loved chuck's as a kid but i'm sure if you took me to one now as a adult, i would go mental or hoard the ball pit for myself.
> 
>  
> 
> pro_derp.tumblr


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